


Suspension of Disbelief

by so_tipsycal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Post-Episode: s01e08 The Defenders, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, basically this is when matt was gone and karen was taking care of his apartment, foggy is only in this tangentially, karedevil - Freeform, karen page is an angst queen cause i am too, sorry foggy, thats high quality pining right there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 15:04:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16813051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_tipsycal/pseuds/so_tipsycal
Summary: Matt's buried beneath a building. Karen's deep in denial. Someone has to pay the rent.She imagines him standing in the middle of the room, pulling together the evidence. A hand out, searching for her before she’s gone, like he used to do when he was still pretending to be more blind than he is. She wants him to piece her back together. A strange satisfaction at the thought of him touching the leather of the couch, smelling the whiskey in the air, sensing all the times she gave up on walking home and passed out drunk in his living room. More than she’d like to admit.





	Suspension of Disbelief

The first time Karen opens the door to his apartment, the hallway is empty, the couch is cold, and there’s a bottle of Jameson left open on the shelf, half-drunk, which she doesn’t touch. The discarded cap is on the floor a little left of center.

There are a couple of spare dishes in the sink. A few spoons, coffee mug, glass tumbler with a smudge on the rim. Lipstick, maybe.

Her heels are too loud on the floor. She’s an interloper, uninvited in an empty room. Takes her time setting the mail down. Considers throwing out the junk, but ends up stacking it in a different pile. Hopes it won’t get out of hand.

She realizes she’s stalling when she keeps glancing toward the bedroom. The bed’s made. She thinks about changing the sheets but can’t quite bear the thought of it. Maybe doesn't trust herself, but she won’t admit it sober.

She takes a breath. Walks back to the kitchen sink. Measures out her life in soap suds and coffee spoons. It’s always been like this. Sure, she writes now instead of waiting tables. There’s a gun in her purse instead of a gram. But there’s something in the loneliness that’s never quite left.

She sets the tumbler aside, picks up the coffee mug.

On the good days, she makes it halfway to her apartment door before ‘KEYS’ catches her and she runs back, rifling through yesterday’s pockets and checking every convenient surface. On the bad days, she knows the keys are lost before she even gets out of bed. Mentally checks through her favorite jackets before pulling the covers higher, trying to forget that there’s a sign at all. There’s something wrong with her—she’s sick, she thinks. She must be sick. Because the alternative is much worse.

On the _really_ bad days, she’ll end up here.

The mark on the lip of the tumbler is too dark to be lipstick. Something red once. Darker now, dried down to black. Something old inside her cracks open, a sense of itching.

There’s something about pipe-dreams written on a napkin. Something to put in a frame and and hang up somewhere. Something to smile at day after day until the lights finally get turned out for good and everyone goes home. Empty rooms. Still hanging there, no one to see it anyway.

She’s always been a scab-picker. She can’t stop looking at the empty tumbler. Imagines a split lip pressing to the edge. The whiskey mixing with the metallic taste of blood. Her hands itch.

She’s got a framed photo of the three of them back at her apartment. On the really bad days she tucks it into her purse beside the gun. There’s a certain thrill in walking home alone at night, pushing her hand into her purse for some tactile comfort, fumbling over the wooden frame and smooth glass instead of a safety switch. When it’s like this—when she can’t see it—there’s no way to feel out the play of color on their smiling faces. Stupid hats, warm touches washed out by the cold, insensible plane of glass, but she feels closer to him that way. Safer in the knowledge that there’s a little piece of love tucked away between the cardboard and the frame, even if she can’t quite look at it right now.

She sets the tumbler aside, thinking about split lips, cuts her eyes up to the whiskey on the shelf.

The weeks fly past, and she finds herself back here again, considering the dregs. She knows that imagining the indirect kiss shared over the mouth of a bottle is the height of desperation, but—hey—she’s not winning awards when she’s already drunk on his couch. The radiator can no longer be goaded into action, which she’s pretty sure has something to do with the unpaid heating bills. Cold hardwood floors in the winter. Blanket tucked over her shoulders. Shivering drunk. And this feels right. This feels like something she deserves.

She fantasizes about Matt coming home and finding these little pieces of her like she’s found pieces of him scattered around—the coffee spoons, the bloody tumbler, the empty chest, the half-drunk whiskey. She wants to gather them up and tuck them into her purse like the photograph and the gun. These are the things that will save you and kill you all at once. She wants to consume them. Be consumed.

She looks over to the empty bottle. Clear now. Tries to crack a drunken half-smile until she remembers that she’s alone and cold and gives it up all over again.

She imagines leaving little pieces of herself for him to find when he comes home. The cleaned dishes, stacked mail, floors scuffed under her heels, lingering perfume slowly getting pulled out through the drafty windows. The drunk whiskey in payment for the electricity bills, which she covered until October—the empty fridge got to her, and Matt never has the lights on anyway.

She imagines him standing in the middle of the room, pulling together the evidence. A hand out, searching for her before she’s gone, like he used to do when he was still pretending to be more blind than he is. She wants him to piece her back together. A strange satisfaction at the thought of him touching the leather of the couch, smelling the whiskey in the air, sensing all the times she gave up on walking home and passed out drunk in his living room. More than she’d like to admit.

Her imaginary Matt frowns, “Karen…”

He’s always wearing his glasses in her mind. Always just a little closed off.

She imagines pulling the picture of three of them out of her purse. Leaving it on the coffee table like another one of his bills. Imagines him brushing his hands over them, both unknowable. And then he’s pulling the frame open, tugging the picture out. He scratches over each of their faces like a foregone lottery ticket, meaningless ink sloughing off, searching for something hidden beneath, some unanswered question that he can’t read.

“We all lose. Now we know.”

He can still pretend it’s a winning ticket if he can’t see the numbers. Suspend disbelief for all the things that need to remain estranged in order to survive.

It’ll be too cold for him with the heat shut off. She’s the only warm thing left in the room. Of course, when he comes back, he’ll care even less about that than she does—hypothermia works nearly as well as a few Hail Mary’s, after all—but she wants him to find this last piece of her like she keeps finding herself here.

One last piece of her to hold close. One last best thing to keep him warm.

Tomorrow, she promises, she’ll call Foggy. There’s still time.


End file.
